


Enter the Cynic

by atheartagentleman



Series: Out Come the Wolves [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/pseuds/atheartagentleman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel takes – drags – him to the meeting not because he thinks Grantaire has any interest in the social justice they are fighting for – the lengthy rants about the waste of human endeavour were enough to clue him in – but rather as a covert rescue mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enter the Cynic

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [crazynerdyfangirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crazynerdyfangirl/pseuds/crazynerdyfangirl) for betaing, and (as always) to the amazing [human-ithink](http://human-ithink.tumblr.com) who not only betas but also makes this story possible.
> 
> See the end-note for brief explanations of particularly French things.

It’s Bahorel who brings him to his first meeting, when they have known each other a few months and lost count of the number of times they have been drunk and disorderly together. They meet in a bar – of course they meet in a bar, where else would they meet? Bahorel is singing loudly, towering over the other patrons and brandishing his beer aloft like a fucking sword. Grantaire, lurking in the corner and previously unseen, suddenly speaks with everyone’s voice and yells at him to shut the fuck up already, because he sounds like foxes having sex, and nobody wants to hear that. Bahorel almost punches him. To this day, he is unsure why he didn’t – though he also can’t say with certainty that he would have come out on top.

Instead, he challenges Grantaire to do better. Grantaire smirks and unfolds himself from his stool, all puppet-like limbs, and then proceeds to stand on it in order to deliver a surprisingly tuneful rendition of the first couple of verses of _Requiem pour un con_ , much to everyone’s amusement. Bahorel somehow still manages to resist the temptation to punch him, because he can recognise style when he sees it, and this scrawny drunk has it in spades. Grantaire bows to his audience of inebriates (still balanced on the stool, and how does he do that?), accepting their smattering of applause with a crooked smile and a sarcastic ‘I’m here all week!’ that is probably truer than one might like.

Bahorel takes – drags – him to the meeting not because he thinks Grantaire has any interest in the social justice they are fighting for – the lengthy rants about the waste of human endeavour were enough to clue him in – but rather as a covert rescue mission. He doesn’t trust the people Grantaire hangs out with, and is both saddened and grateful that ‘hanging out’ is the extent of Grantaire’s emotional connection to them.

The simple truth is that Grantaire doesn’t have friends.

He never kept in touch with those he made during his few months in prépa, and he hasn’t made any new ones since, because nobody worth talking to has been able to withstand the full force of his often angry, often drunk self. He is too smart for his own good, has no concept of when to shut up, and very little by way of self-preservational instincts. If he’s being perfectly honest, Bahorel has to admit that all of these things have come damn close to pushing him away as well on more than one occasion. So maybe his determination to change the sad state of Grantaire’s social life is a pasty little guilt-baby. Months later, Bahorel will congratulate himself on his stroke of genius, because Les Amis are _good_ for Grantaire.Here are people who are clever, and driven (disgustingly so) and fundamentally kind even when they’re being dicks. Grantaire is certain that they put up with him. Bahorel hasn’t been able to convince him that they like him a hell of a lot.

The first encounter between Grantaire and Les Amis goes something like this: he promises Bahorel he will go to his stupid meeting-thingy, alright, so just leave me alone now, and Bahorel nods, appeased. He has been badgering R for months (since before he got Eponine to sort them their new HQ, even), and his patience, never great to begin with, is wearing very thin indeed. There is really only so much he can take by way of evasions, treatises on the futility of seeking betterment and growled warnings to ‘just drop it’ before he threatens to pick Grantaire up by the scruff of his neck like a particularly angry kitten and carry him to a meeting himself. Capitulating at least allows Grantaire the dignity of making his way to this grubby little bar on his own two feet. He is late, of course, although for once it’s not his fault. The bar these guys have chosen is weirdly difficult to find. He walks in to a cheer from Bahorel, who crushes him in greeting, and then addresses the room, pointing at each of them as he lists their names to a chorus of ‘hi’s and waving:

‘People, this is Grantaire, the guy I was telling you about. R, meet Les Amis de l’ABC: Prouvaire, known as Jehan, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, Lesgles, known as Bossuet, Combeferre, and our Lord and Master.’ Enjolras barely twitches at the title Bahorel gives him, but unfolds himself from where he was sitting cross-legged on a table to shake Grantaire’s hand, pleased to have a new recruit, and introduces himself properly.

‘Enjolras. It’s nice to meet you.’

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. ‘Bless you.’

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but shrugs in amused acknowledgement.

‘I like this one. Can we keep him?’ someone pipes up.

That’s Cour-something, R thinks, and he shoots the man a grin as he replies ‘I aim to please.’

‘Oh do you now?’

‘Down, boy!’ another voice calls from the corner. It’s the man introduced as Jehan, who hasn’t looked up from his notebook, and thus misses the comment-maker sticking his tongue out at him in response. ‘And don’t stick your tongue out at me, you know it won’t work.’ (Grantaire concludes Jehan must be psychic).

‘Anyway, we should get on with things. Combeferre, you were saying...?’

The meeting resumes and Grantaire slinks to a chair in the corner near Bahorel, watches, and occasionally sips his beer. The guy addressed as Combeferre explains his efforts to get his professors to sanction a student strike, instead of penalising them when it comes to exam season for the work they will inevitably miss. Then someone else hands over a sheaf of papers and explains who-the-hell-knows-what, and Grantaire tunes it all out.

He tries to listen when the progress reports give way to a detailed explanation from Enjolras of their ‘mission’ for next week, but slumps again when this devolves into a very earnest speech about all the things wrong with the current ‘system’. The others listen with rapt attention, as though they don’t hear this spiel at least once a week. Variations in E Major. The Injustice Sonata, brought to you today in its twentieth iteration. Talk about preaching to the choir... More like E Major Pain in my Ass. Grantaire can feel a headache coming on. He leans over to Bahorel, who also looks frighteningly caught up in the proceedings and stage-whispers:

‘So you were actually serious about the whole political thing? Dude, I want a refund.’

A pair of shockingly blue eyes is instantly trained on him like a laser.

‘Is there a problem?’ Enjolras’ voice is polite, but even someone who doesn’t know him can hear the naked steel with which it is laced.

‘Do you actually believe any of this crap?’

‘Of course I do. Don’t you?’ The ice in Enjolras’ voice gets thicker as that under Grantaire’s feet gets thinner. Bahorel tries to kick him subtly under the table, but R ignores him despite how bleeding obvious the blow actually is.

‘Of course I don’t.’ His inflection mimics Enjolras’ perfectly.

‘And yet you have sat through,’ Enjolras theatrically checks his watch ‘an hour of me talking about this ‘crap’. One has to wonder why you are even here.’

‘He made me.’ Grantaire points at Bahorel and plasters on his most shit-eating grin. ‘And I’m here now, and the beer’s cheap, so I figured I might as well stay.’

Bahorel scowls and an imperceptible shudder runs through the room. He had expected some kind of trouble – Grantaire too much of a sarcastic sonova to do anything but sow mayhem – but he does not appreciate being drawn into what is likely going to become the pissing match of the century.

‘Since we have the room booked, it is not currently a public space, so we are entirely within our rights to ask you to leave.’ (Grantaire adds a cross-reference for Pompous Law Student to his mental file on Enjolras, which is headed Preachy-Preach).

‘Ooh, trying to lawyer me, are we? It’s kinda hot,’ Grantaire smirks. Enjolras growls in frustration, but before he can reply, Grantaire ploughs right on. ‘See how useful law is when you’re the one using it. I call oppression.’

Enjolras heaves a deep sigh, closing his eyes and quite possibly requesting a double-helping of fortitude and inner peace. Grantaire uses the moment to slide even lower on his chair so that everything about his posture says Not Moving.

And that tableau – Enjolras angry, exasperated and confused, and Grantaire, amused, belligerent and more than half-drunk – is the closest thing anyone in that room has ever seen to an omen, though only Bossuet has the presence of mind at the time to recognise it for one. He whispers as much to Joly who winces at the thought.

Enjolras draws a deep breath, levels a glare at Grantaire (and then another at Bahorel when Grantaire fails to burst into flames) and carries on with the meeting. He splits the group, assigns tasks, occasionally pontificates and generally does his level best to ignore the man, who somehow manages to be an irritant just by sitting in a chair, occasionally scratching himself and sipping steadily at a seemingly never-ending succession of beers. Somewhere, the laws of the universe are weeping.

The last thing he expects is for Grantaire to be there again the following week. His eyes flash to Bahorel, promising pain for this betrayal, but the bruiser grins unrepentantly and shrugs a massive shoulder. He loves their cause, he really does, but when it comes to a choice between annoying the hell out of everyone and leaving Grantaire to rot, he’ll pick the former any day.

**Author's Note:**

>  **'Requiem pour un con'** is a song by Gainsbourg, and the title means 'Requiem for an idiot' (it's quite an offensive word for idiot, though). You should look it up, the lyrics are wonderfully sarcastic.  
>  **Prépa** = this crazy elitist system, with the 2 (3 if you're not lucky) hardest years of your life to get into a "Grande Ecole", which were created in the mid-18th century when some people decided that the universities were going to hell, and have stayed the most prestigious form of education you can get in France. But it's worth it if you get through, because a Grande Ecole means getting pretty damn good job offers when you graduate.  
>  Basically, it's an insane crash-course for university which perfectly exemplifies the old "that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger"  
>  **Law point** \-- I spent several hours trying to look up the law on trespass, but had to give up because I don't currently have access to a law library. So I took a couple of bits from the Code Civil, a few snippets from forums, and extrapolated. It's probably not totally accurate, sorry.
> 
> Comments and kudos give me life, and please come say hi on [Tumblr](http://at-heart-a-gentleman.tumblr.com).


End file.
